Chapter 3 #2
As if the rock star has ever lacked for attention or needed reassurance that he’s the hottest guy in the room. I guess all it took was a shaved head to make him feel like an average Joe.
“Yes, but you aren’t the Man of Steel,” I remind my brother.
“It’s okay, baby. I like your dimple,” Ryan coos. Kissing her forefinger, then placing it against the dent in his chin.
Once again, Mark’s hand wraps around my waist, landing on my hip.
I don’t miss the quick notice Owen gives the move before Mark steps in with his unsolicited opinion.
“There’s no question. Have you seen this face when she smiles?
” He points to my cheek, where my dimple would appear if his comment had made me smile.
“If that doesn’t prove the answer to your question, I don’t know what does. ”
Why is Mark so annoying when we’re around my people? On his turf, I find everything he does charming. But when you put him side by side with the men of this group, his personality doesn’t quite compare.
Owen’s eyes find mine, and one eyebrow lifts as if to say, that was cheesy as hell. His own dimples are on full display when he ends the debate. “Sorry, Knox. The man from California knows what he’s talking about. Cheek dimples for the win.”
With that, Owen sends me a sexy little wink, then continues to torture my brother about who’s sexier than who and, surprisingly, Knox is playing right along. I haven’t seen this playful side of him in so long I can’t remember when.
“These two are going to be an exhausting combination,” Ryan says under her breath to me. “We have to discourage these charm-offs whenever possible.”
Stepping away from Mark, I pull her into a hug. “All I hear in that statement is that you two are gonna be around enough for it to be an issue.”
She hugs me back but says nothing. I know she’s telling us her move here is temporary, but I see through her. She’s back for good, just like my big brother. Next to the safe arrival of my new niece, it’s the best news I’ve had all year.
When Ryan moved away for college, she swore she’d never come back. Looks like I owe Knox a thank you.
Owen’s phone pings, halting the who’s hotter debate.
“Oh, for fuck's sake,” he groans.
“Everything okay?” I ask.
“No, Daisy. Things are far from okay.” His hand runs through his hair in distress. “Look what just showed up at the firehouse.” He turns his phone for us all to see.
Puppies.
It’s a litter of lab puppies. Six of them, to be exact. Four yellow and two chocolate brown.
I exhale with the relief that it’s not work calling him in for an emergency. He’s a member of the SWAT team, and I hate it.
Is it sexy? Yes.
Is it stressful? Also, yes.
Those calls aren’t an everyday occurrence here in Central Oregon, but the few times he’s been called away from a family gathering, I’m a mess until I find out he’s safe and sound.
I wish I had never joked about his drinking.
Now that he doesn’t drink when we’re out, it means he's sober and can be called in. He knows I was giving him a bullshit reason for us not to be together when I said he drank too much, but annoying me is his primary goal in life, so he uses my words to torture me. Right now, I’m grateful all I have to worry about are the fur babies on his phone.
“Oh, my goodness. Look at them,” I coo.
“Bro, what is your malfunction?” Knox asks. “How do puppies piss a person off?”
“Because I don’t have time for a puppy.”
“Good thing nobody said you had to take one,” my brother counters.
“Look at them.” Owen shoves the phone closer to his face.
“They're cute as hell,” Knox says, with a glance at Ryan.
“Look at that one,” she says, already in love. “The yellow one in the upper left corner. What a sweet little baby!”
The corners of Knox’s lips curve up, and he looks at Ryan as though he’d give her the whole litter if she asked. Looks like one of those perfect little fur-babies already has a home.
Owen pockets his phone, and the drinks and conversation resume.
One beer later, Mark excuses himself, right as the girls and I rush onto the dance floor for one of our favorite line dances.
We shake our asses and stomp our feet along with the rest of the line dancers.
When we make our final spin back to face the bar, Mark is leaning against the counter watching, a small smile on his face and a fresh beer in his hand.
The song ends, and he sets his glass down so he can clap his appreciation for my moves.
I start my walk off the dance floor as a new song begins, but I don’t make it far.
A large hand engulfs mine, pulling me back to the center of the dance floor.
I don’t need to look to know who it is. The warmth of his hand sends shivers up my arm, and as much as I love his touch, right here, right now, it freaks me out. There are too many eyes on us.
"Dance with me, Clover."
Rather than cause a scene, I let him guide me across the floor, and without warning, he spins me out in front of him like he has so many times before.
And like all those times before, the speed at which he throws me around brings on a fit of giggles.
I’m glad I wore boy shorts under my short dress because my ass would be on display to everyone, including my brothers.
Ick. We swing along to the fast-paced song until I’m breathless, and he pulls me in close, switching to a two-step.
“I finally finished your birthday present,” he says, before blowing my hair out of my face for me. The hint of root beer tickles my nose. “I know it’s late, but I think you’ll like it.”
“What do you mean you finished it?”
“Don’t doubt my ability to do arts and crafts, little missy. I have plenty of skills you have yet to lay your eyes on.”
“Okay, now you’re scaring me.”
“You’re afraid of a lot of things these days.”
“Don’t start.”
“Fine.”
He swings me around his back, out in front of him, and then under his hands and back behind him, and before I know it, he’s dipping me. “Try not to yell my name tonight when you fake your orgasm with your houseguest.”
“Asshole.” I should be nice to him, since his hold on me is the only thing keeping my ass off the ground, but where’s the fun in that?
He brings me upright, and for all to see, he whispers in my ear.
“You know you’ll wish it was me in your bed, so it would only be natural for my name to slip out in the throes of the mediocre pleasure he’ll bring you.
” His hands grasp me by the shoulders to spin me toward my out-of-town visitor, and then he shoves me toward the bar.
“Go get ‘em, cowgirl. And don’t forget, his name is Mark.”
And just like that, Owen Swift is in my head the rest of the night. As are flashes of New York and freshly inked tattoos.
Unfortunately for Mark, this inconvenience means I fake an upset stomach, and he doesn’t get what he came to Goose Hollow for.
He isn’t Owen.